Mercy
by Liatris5113
Summary: What happens when a survivor of Rook Island finds herself unable to adapt back into her old, normal life? What if she finds herself yearning to get back to the island that cost her friends their lives and drove her to near insanity? Even worse is that she finds herself wanting to, once again, see the man that taught her the meaning of the word.
1. Changed

**After reading Stolen: A Letter to My Captor, I was interested in the idea of writing a letter to a captor, I've been playing/watching Far Cry 3 and I wanted to see what would happen if the guy in the story was Vaas. I still don't know where I'd go with this, but it's nice to just let loose some ideas at times. **

* * *

**Changed**

I missed the sound of the sea. It was sort of funny, really, back when I was in Rook Island, the sound of waves crashing across the beach had been so constant that you had taught yourself to tune it out.

Now, back in the city, with nothing but the sound of cars and the hustle and bustle of people as they made their way to wherever they're going, you were beginning to realize that you hated city noises.

_They didn't mean anything. _

Just people noises.

Only a few weeks ago, every sound meant the difference between life and death.

Failure to hear the snap of a twig or the rustle of a leaf could end with a gun pointed at my face or sharp claws of some jungle animal raking against my flesh.

There, the noises meant _something_. To hear them meant that I was alive, to hear them meant that I had the chance to _stay_ alive.

Now...listening to the sounds of those cars honking wildly at each other, as if it could make the traffic flow quicker or the occasional high-pitched laugh of some girl passing by, I cursed my heightened senses.

In the jungle, it meant survival. But here, it meant that I was probably not going to get some sleep for the night.

That's all right, I didn't want to sleep anyway.

I sat up in bed, ridding myself of the sheets and reached for the glass of water that was on my bedside table.  
I wasn't thirsty but I started drinking anyway. Then I stopped when I realized that I was reverting back to old habits.

In Rook Island, water was vital. Fresh water even more so. Whenever I found a spring or a river that looked even semi-clean, I drank your fill and then some. When I couldn't drink anymore, I filled my bottles with the stuff.

Water had meant survival back then, and I could still remember the surge of wild relief that I felt every time I saw a spring.

Now, all I had to do was walk down to kitchen, open the tap and _voila_! Fresh water.

God, it all felt so pointless.

I rubbed my face with my hands. Even that ordinary, everyday thing of getting water from a tap seemed so alien to me.

Rook Island had changed me, for better or worse.

But that wasn't true was it? It wasn't just Rook Island; it was the people there.

Well...one person in particular.

Vaas.  
Just the thought of him was enough to send a chill down my

spine.  
Insane, violent, psychotic, hyped-up on drugs. And the only person who would understand what I was feeling right now.

Vaas Montenegro was a part of Rook Island, as much a part of it as the trees, the animals, the ziplines, the guns and drugs and the...  
And the freedom.

Despite the shootings, the murders and all the savages that had lived there, Rook Island represented a wild sort of freedom.  
The freedom to do whatever I wanted: to leap from a cliff straight into the river below or the zipline down a mountain into the waiting arms of a dozen or so henchmen just waiting to gun me down.

I didn't want to think about it too much because it frightened me.

Did I honestly want to go down this lane? Did I want to admit to myself that I missed Rook Island? Missed...Vaas?

Emotions swirled inside my chest like a tempest.

It wasn't right to want him like this. Wasn't right to...to...  
I closed my eyes. Breathed deeply. No, my will not go there.

Unable to stand the company of my thoughts any longer, I fired up my laptop and went on the internet.

But I found myself at a loss when I clicked at the address bar. Where would I go?

Facebook, where a thousand notifications probably waited for me, from friends who just wanted in on the scoop?

Goodreads, where I could talk to random strangers about books I don't even have the interest to read anymore?

where-

Without another word, I closed my browser and opened Microsoft Word.

My psychiatrist had told me that writing about my experience might help me get over it.

This probably not the sort of 'writing' that she would approve of.

But I couldn't help myself, my fingers began to fly across the keyboard. I wrote feverishly, not caring that I needed to sleep or that it was 3 AM in the morning.

I just wrote.

As I wrote, I remembered.


	2. Upon Waking

_Enjoy_

_Oh, and no, this isn't going to be a Far Cry 3 except with a girl protagonist. (no matter how much I whine that I wanted to play as a girl in Far Cry 3) Just thought I ought to put that out. Thanks for the kind reviews by the way! They made my day!_

* * *

Who, what, when, where and how; those are the only words I heard when I returned from Rook Island.

Everyone, from my parents, to my friends to my pretend-friends all asked the same questions.

_Who, what, when, where how. _

"Who was that man who kept sending the ransom videos?"

"What was it like being held captive by a madman?"

"When did you realize that he was planning on selling you to slavery once they got the ransom money?"

"Where did he keep you?"

"How did you escape?"

Each and every time, I find that I only had one answer: "I don't know."

Despite my discouraging answer, they always wait for more details.

See, the thing with most people is that they don't really want answers so much as they want a _story_, which is a really different thing.

They want a beginning, a middle and an ending, all neatly wrapped up and condensed into five minutes of early news that they can watch over their morning coffee; the anecdote version of a public bathroom quickie—over before it began, and complete with the lingering feeling of emptiness afterwards.

What I'm trying to say is that I'm not going to give you the godda-the story the way you want me to. It doesn't come in a cute little box with all the pieces perfectly put together so you can coo about it.

I'm not even sure there is a story anymore.

I just...want these things, these words and these images out of my head. They've been in my mind ever since I left Rook Island and they won't leave me alone.

_Who, what, when, where, how. _

The media does so love to ask these questions.

So does my psychiatrist.

So do my parents.

The sad part is, I don't know the answer. I don't have much recollections of Rook Island, more like fragments of it. These fragments are particularly bad at night, where they burrow and twist into my brain like slivers of broken glass.

I just want to get them _out. _

**Upon Waking**

If my hands weren't tied behind my back, I'm pretty sure that I would have cut off my own ears. The walls of the shack that we were being kept in were thin, and I could hear the sound of gunshots and screams resounding from the outside.

Every now and then, someone laughs.

I don't know who was fighting who or what they were fighting about, but the sounds of the fight were enough to make my heart stutter.

I could hear screaming, insane laughter, gunshots and the occasional howl of some jungle animal, but I had absolutely _no _idea what was happening. My ears felt like they were about to burst from the sensory overload but the noises felt so alien, my brain couldn't process them.

It felt so _unreal. _A few hours ago, we were on a cruise, laughing, sipping some alcoholic concoction, making jokes about where we wanted to go after the cruise…

_No, no, this can't be happening. _I tried to block the noises, tried telling myself that it wasn't real.

_This is a dream, just a dream_. A dream brought on by eating a bad oyster or taking that stupid pill when Yvonne dared me to.

I'll wake up, I'll wake up and I'll still be on the cruise ship, maybe feeling a bit sick but otherwise fine.

Though my hands were tied, I somehow managed to pinch the fleshy part of my arm. Hard.

_Wakeupwakeupwakeupwakeupwakeupwakeupwakeupwakeupwa keup._

"OW!" No. I was still dreaming.

I heard the rustle of clothe and stiffened.

"Anna?" The voice trembled and cracked at the mention of my name, but I was grateful to hear it. God knows I didn't want to be alone. Not even in a dream.

"Kyle? Kyle, are you there? I thought…I thought…" a scene flashed before my eyes.

_Men in red shirts advancing on us, toy guns in their hands, yelling obscenities._

_What? What? Are we playing some kind of war game? Some sort of friendly competition?_

_Kyle pushing me behind him, yelling something at the men. _

_One of them rushed forward—what sort of game was this anyway?_

_The sickening sound of the toy gun connecting with my friend's skull, Kyle falling to the ground, his eyelids fluttering sporadically, a nasty welt rising beginning to form on his temple._

_That didn't look like a toy gun at all nonononononononono_

_Gunshots. Me screaming. Our friends running away. I was just standing there. Lindsey getting shot, her blood erupting from her back like some horrible flower. Lindsey falling. Me running to her._

_Get up Lindsey, Lindsey get up. Kyle's hurt. Did you hear? Your brother's hurt? _

_Lindsey? No. She's not breathing. _

_CRACK!_

_Pain exploding in my arm like lightning, sending shock waves across my body. Blood. I see blood._

_Is it Lindsey's blood or is it mine? _

_Kyle—have to go to Kyle, Lindsey's dead._

_Someone standing over me, holding a gun to my face._

_I'm dead. Dead like Lindsey and Kyle with blood running down their backs, not breathing. _

_OhGodohGodohGod. _

_Man with gun smiled. Shot Lindsey again. _

_Her body shook. Fall still. Lindsey dead. Kyle dead. I'm dead. _

_Nononono justadreamjustadreamwakeupwakeupwakeup!_

"You thought I was dead?" Kyle's voice broke into my thoughts. "Well, I'm not. My head hurts like a motherfucker, though. Where are we?"

"Some sort of shack, I think," I replied. Gently, I tried to lift my arm, wanting to see if I really had been shot.

No pain.

Relief flooded me, so this _was _a dream. They say that you can't feel pain in a dream.

"Where're the others? My God, is that gunshot outside?" Kyle asked, his voice coming out in a very un-Kyle-like squeak.

"Doesn't matter," I hummed.

"_What?_ Christ Anna, what the fuck did you say? _It doesn't matter?! _My _sister _could be the one getting shot out there and you say _it _doesn't matter?"

"I'll wake up soon and we'll be back on the cruise ship. Don't worry, Kyle, we'll be fine."

"Shit. Anna, listen to me, this is real. We need to get out of here, find Lindy and the others. God, I wish I was dreaming to, but I'm not. Anna, please stay with me."

"No. I'm dreaming." No, Kyle, please don't say it. I'm dreaming. I'm not awake. This isn't happening. Please don't say it's real, please.

"Anna Maria, keep it together for fuck's sake!" Kyle's voice rose to a yell.

Maybe he was about to say something more, I would never know because his next words were interrupted by the sound of a door creaking.

I'm pretty sure we both froze at this. Boots clunked heavily against the wooden floor of the shack.

Kyle grunting in pain, "Hey, let go of me, fucker!"

The sound of flesh hitting flesh, Kyle groaning in pain. "You keep your mouth shut or I'll gut you," someone with an accent too thick to place warned.

Rough, calloused hands grabbed my arm and pulled me up; I cried out as my arm screamed in pain.

_No, this wasn't right, you can't feel pain in a dream. _

Whoever was gripping my arm shoved me, hard and it took every ounce of strength I had not to fall. Pins and needles were spiking up and down my legs—how long had I been kept in that shed?

"Move, if you know what's good for you," my captor grunted.

So I moved, with no idea where I was going or whether Kyle was going with me. I didn't want the voice to get angry at me.

We walked for several minutes—or hours, I didn't care, and then I was shoved down on my knees. The earth was oddly slick, as if it had rained earlier and the ground didn't have a chance to dry up yet.

"Boss, here're the hostages," a voice behind me said.

The click of a knife, no—no! _They were going to stab me! Please no, I'm too young!_

I kicked out with my legs, felt them connect with flesh, tried to get up but strong hands grabbed me by the shoulders and pushed me back down again.

I tried to scream but a hand covered my mouth. "Hey-hey, _shut the fuck up! _Okay? Shut the fuck up. I'm not going to fucking stab you or anything…I don't know, just shut the fuck up, okay? It's fucking annoying."

Briefly, I considered biting down onto the hand, but I realized that the hand was wet with…something that smelled like blood. It smelled like blood and gunpowder.

I felt a sudden pressure at the back of my head, and then my blindfold was cut free. Bright light stung my eyes and I had to look away for a second, wishing that whoever had cut my blindfold would also untie me, so that I could wipe away the tears that were building in my eyes.

That was when I saw the bodies. Men with tattooed faces and arms were lying dead in a pool of their own blood. The many holes in their bodies told me how they died.

_Gunshot. Screaming. Laughter. _

Their eyes stared sightlessly up at the sky, which was a startling forget-me-not blue.

It was far too a beautiful day for such ugliness. I wanted to scream, I could _feel _the scream building within me, like water in a dam that was far, far, too fragile to hold it all in.

Oh God, if I didn't scream it would destroy me.

But I couldn't the hand was still covering my mouth. Trembling all over now, I raised my eyes to take a look at the hand's owner.

I nearly screamed again. When someone says, _kidnapper, _I'd normally think of a man with large, rippling muscles, maybe a tattoo or three running up his arms, wearing a black suit and holding a gun with a silencer fitted to it: cold, efficient, professional. The sort of guy who'll manage to make you disappear without a trace, but will deliver you back to your family if they paid the deal.

But no…this guy didn't fit the deal. He wasn't bulked up nor did he have a tattoo or even the business suit that all white collar criminals are wearing these days.

This guy was lean, muscular, yes but not in the way you'd expect. He was muscular the way a feral cat was muscular, built for speed rather than strength.

_Haha! So he'll not be able to snap your neck, but he can stab you so many times before you even realize it! HAHA! _A voice was screaming crazily inside my head.

He had scars all over the side of his head, which would've been scary enough but it paled compared to his eyes. They dominated his face; two large, dark brown orbs that seemed to gleam with promises of later violence.

"Don't. Fucking. Scream. Okay, _hermana? _You can do that, can't you, hm?"

Feeling tears beginning to well up in my eyes, I nodded. When he took his hand away I had to bite my tongue, hard, to keep myself from screaming.

He looked pleased when I didn't make a sound.

"You know how to follow orders," he said. "I like that, _hermana, _I can fucking respect that. You follow orders better than these stupid fucks." He waved his hand carelessly behind him to indicate the men who were standing in line, their guns held loosely in their hands.

One of them grinned at me and made a kissing gesture. Frightened, I looked down.

Eyes saw this and let out a laugh. "Ey!" he turned back to the men. "Stop scaring our guest, okay? Stop fucking scaring her, look at her, fucking shivering like that. Do that again, and I'll fucking shoot you, man."

The men dithered but none of them looked like they were going to run away, like I would've done if anyone threatened to shoot me, apparently, they were used to this kind of thing.

"So you know how to follow orders." Eyes laughed again.

I didn't say anything.

"Hm? Did you say something, _hermana_? Did you _fucking_ _say something?_"

My stomach clenched at the tone of his voice and I rapidly shook my head no.

Eyes looked at me for some time before he said, "You look like shit."

"Don't scream, okay?" Then, he leaned forward and pressed his hand on my arm. My _injured_ arm.

Fire raced up my body, making me jump, making me want to scream. But he still held his knife in his other hand.

"_He'll not be able to snap your neck, but he can stab you so many times before you even realize it!"_

I bit my lip to keep from screaming. Blood dribbled down my chin. Eyes thought that was hilarious and let out an insane, blood-curdling laugh.

"Fucking obedient, you are," he said, still giggling. "We're going to have a lot of fun, you and I."

When he put his arm around me, I smelled blood and…something else, something I couldn't quite put a finger to. In that moment, even though I knew we were both human he seemed so alien, a different species altogether. One that liked to torture and shoot and kill.

_Alien. _

Experts say that in our dreams, we only see the faces of the people we already know.

I guess I'm awake after all.

* * *

_Thanks for reading! Hope you liked it!_


	3. Owned

It's funny how a situation like mine makes everyone that think they're a psychologist. They see my face for five minutes on the news and suddenly they think that they know all about me, my story. They sit me down and try to psycho-analyze me, bringing up terms like "trauma" and "PTSD" as if they didn't simply look up what it meant on Wikipedia the night before.

My mother, for instance.

She sits at the edge of my bed and though I could feel her eyes burning a hole in my back, but I don't say a word. I am forcibly reminded of the many times she had done this to me as a child: sat at the edge of my bed, breathing not a word, waiting until I was ready to speak up on my own.

A mug of hot chocolate rested on the top of my nightstand, just like it always did when I was a child.

Hot chocolate was my mother's favorite weapon, the one thing that she always brings me when she wanted to "talk".

But I only had two words for her: "Go away."

"Anna…"

"Go away."

"We're worried, sweetie."

"Nothing to worry about."

Pause. Silence.

Sweet silence.

"Honey, have you ever heard of Stockholm Syndrome?"

I flipped onto my back so that I am staring straight at her. "Stockholm syndrome, or capture–bonding, is a psychological phenomenon in which hostages express empathy and sympathy and have positive feelings toward their captors, sometimes to the point of defending them." I recited in a monotone.

Mom, we've been sharing the same internet connection since you asked me to live with you and Dad for a while. I _know_ what Stockholm Syndrome is.

"I don't have Stockholm Syndrome," I insisted. "Really," I added when she looked skeptical.

The look on her face told me she didn't believe me.

A lot of people didn't believe me as well.

Or rather, they didn't want to.

Certainly it adds more drama to the whole scenario doesn't it?

The tragic survivor hopelessly in love with her captor is a lot more alluring than "tragic survivor just wants to be left alone."

They would choose a good story over truth any day, these people who think they know me. I picture them as the vultures in Rook Island, swooping down, tearing me apart, ripping me to pieces.

I used to take practice shots at those vile birds. But here, I can do nothing but listen to their incessant cawing.

_"Has he ever touched you in a sexual manner?"_

_"Has he ever asked you to touch him in a sexual manner?"_

_"Did you two ever have sex?"_

Questions that would otherwise embarrass them are pelted at me.

It is no use. Nothing in me is sacred anymore, nothing is private. Once you appear on the news, you are public property.

I am a story to them, nothing more.

Whether I am in Rook Island or New York City, I am still someone else's property.

**Owned**

There is a certain bittersweet irony in knowing that no matter how bad my situation is, there is always someone who's got it worse.

Above our cage lies the pirates' plaything for the day.

Unlike ours, his cage was on stilts, and it provided no mercy from the sun. His skin was sunburned and peeling, and he was obviously very thirsty.

He had moaned pathetically when one of the pirates came and made Kyle and I drink water from a canteen. One half for each of us.

It tasted like mud, but I gulped it gratefully. Who knows when we'll get a chance to drink again?

He didn't offer the sunburned man any.

As the pirate walked away, the sunburned man's eyes followed him. He opened his mouth again, but no sound came out.

I was dizzy from the heat and all I wanted was to sleep away the ache in my joints, but I felt that we should at least gather as much information as we can if we were to have a chance of escaping.

"Kyle," I nudged my friend with my foot.

Kyle seemed to have aged ten years overnight. Worry for his sister, Lindsey coupled with our ordeal made new lines appear on his face. His shoulders seemed permanently slumped and his eyes were bloodshot.

I...certainly don't want to know what _I_ looked like.

"Anna," he murmured.

"Don't you think that we should talk to..." I gestured to the man above us. I couldn't use my hands because they were bound by twine, but a quick jerk of my head worked just as well.

Although obviously miserable and strained, Kyle's blue eyes lit up with interest.

He looked up and whispered as loudly as he dared, "Pssstt..." His voice cracked with disuse but he managed to get the man's attention.

His eyes swiveled in our direction. He was not a pretty sight. Even dehydrated and left to shrivel under the cruel beat of the sun, he gave of the appearance of a powerfully built man. Muscles bulged from underneath his ragged shirt and there were strange tattoos on his face and along the length of his arms.

I had no idea what to say to him. What would you say to a man whose only connection to you was that you were both being tortured by the same bunch of people?

_So my friend and I, we were taking a luxury cruise and we suddenly got attacked by these pirates! Can you believe it? Yeah, me neither. They killed a bunch of our friends, they killed his sister too, only don't tell him that, because I'm too scared to tell him yet. But enough about me, what about you? What's your sob story?_

Even inside my head it sounded stupid.

Fortunately, Kyle was a lot better at this thing than I was.

"I'm Kyle," he introduced. "That's Anna. How long have you been here?"

"I...I..."

"Good morning hermano," a cheerful voice said.

Oh shit. Not him. _That psycho_.

But it was and ohJesusChristIdon'twantodie.

He was carrying a long, thin bamboo slat and he was looking up at the cage.

Then to my horror, he looked straight at me and smiled.

"Good morning, Anna Maria," he said crouching so that we were eye-to-eye. I wanted to look away but the twine binding my wrists prevented me from doing so.

"Did you have a nice sleep?" He said this so sincerely that you could almost believe that he _wasn't_ some psycho-pirate.

The too-bright eyes, the scars and the gun that was holstered at his hip gave him away, though.

"I see you've made a new friend." Still smiling, he gestured to the man in the cage.

_Ohshitohshitohshitohshitohshitohshitohshit. _

There were so many _oh shits _running through my head, I was surprised that crap wasn't leaking out of my ears.

The sunburned man mumbled something I couldn't understand but apparently, the psycho did.

"You kiss your mama with that mouth, _hermano_?" he asked, amused.

Another intelligible string of words, faster this time. It took me a moment to realize that the man was speaking in another language, rather than just hysterical gibberish.

"Hey, hey, hey! Can you stop swearing? We're in the presence of a lady here…"

_Fuck you, motherfucking fuck. Let us go or I'm going to fuck you up so bad. _

But the man continued to speak as if he couldn't hear him, maybe he can't.

The psycho just kept on smiling, but already I could see a transformation going on within him.

_It's in the eyes._

Without even hesitating, the psycho calmly pulled a gun out of a holster or his back pocket—I couldn't really see anything except the gun.

"Don't shoot him!" The words burst out of me before I can stop them and had my hands not been tied, I would have clapped them over my mouth.

This was the wrong thing to say.

The smile was gone.

"I'm sorry, what?" he crouched so that he is once again eye-level with me. "Did I hear, right? You don't want me to shoot him, huh? You think that you can…" He made a vague gesture with his gun. "…just order me around, huh? Think you own me?"

He cocked the gun and for a moment, I thought he was going to shoot me.

"Don't you dare shoot her you son of a—!"

_BANG!_

I screamed.

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

Something warm falls on my head, runs down my cheeks and mixes with my tears. I didn't need to be told to know what it was.

I don't look up. I kept my eyes firmly on the psychopath.

"Let's get something straight, _hermana,_" he said, putting the gun away. "_You _and your tough guy friend over there. You're my bitch. _You _don't tell me what to do, huh? I _own _you, hermana. You don't own me, huh? Are we clear?" He made a sharp clicking noise with his tongue.

Stands up and dusts himself off, as if what he just did was an everyday thing.

"Anna are you all right?" Kyle asked, nudging me with his foot. "Don't look up, okay?"

"Hey, come on, hermana. I've got something to show you."

"Anna, please talk to me."

"It'll be fun, I promise. We're going to uh…forget this thing, huh? Water under the bridge, man."

"Anna, please."

"Now, where did…Hey! Hey, Carlos! Where'd you put the keys to this thing?"

"Kyle. We need to get out of here," I said numbly, as if I've only just realized it.

I swear to God, if I ever get out of here, I'm going to drive a knife through that bastard's heart.

* * *

_Have to go to school in fifteen minutes! See yah! Hope you enjoyed, constructive criticism is always welcome. As well as a few hints and tips on how to write Vaas, cause I'm really having a difficult time here._

_Anyway, have a nice day!_


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